


Relativity

by postcardsfromrussia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:19:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postcardsfromrussia/pseuds/postcardsfromrussia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Failure:</b> fail·ure: a fracturing or giving way under stress, a falling short.</p><p>Hermione has faced a boggart before. The problem is, she didn't succeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relativity

**Author's Note:**

> Ta to Alex and Sarah for help on where Hermione lives, and the rest of the flist for listening to me go on about it.

Failure, I think, is a relative concept.

I am not the same person I was the last time I saw a boggart. Failure, then, for me, was that I had failed my tests, that I would have to repeat the year, that something, anything really, had gone wrong.

It’s odd to think, now, of my definition of failure four years ago, and compare it to today. Where being anything other than Exactly Perfect will lead to death. Where, even if I am who I want to be, I could still die.

(Grimmauld Place. 2 September 1997.)

I shouldn’t be awake. It is an important day, one that, despite all my planning, could go very wrong, but knowing that, how could you expect me to sleep?

I’ve been lying here, on the old couch, for nearly an hour, Ron directly below me, Harry farther away, curled up in an armchair, covered by blankets. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to wake them up.

Carefully, quietly, I ease the blankets off of myself, and am immediately caught in a gust of cold air. Automatically, I flinch back, nearly fall off the sofa.

It’s nothing, I’m sure, but I think I hear something.

(High Wycombe, England. 9 September 1985.)

There are words that I don’t understand.

I don’t pay enough attention. That’s what Ms. Rice said, anyway, but here I am, and I can hear better than I’m supposed to, I think. I’m paying attention now.

_She’s gifted._

_It doesn’t matter. Talent isn’t everything, Jean. This is a very selective program and not only intelligence, but also work, is what makes a star student._

(I am six years old and work is what Dad goes to in the morning and what he comes home from late at night and I don’t want to go somewhere all day.)

_She does work hard. Don’t tell me she doesn’t work harder than any of the other children you have. And don’t tell me she’s not a hundred times smarter._

_Jean, it’s like I said. It doesn’t matter if she’s a hundred times smarter if she clearly doesn’t care about what’s going on._

_I understand. I’m taking her home. We’ll find somewhere else._

_You think somewhere else will take her?_

I don’t think I was supposed to hear those things but I did and now Mum comes out of Ms. Rice’s office and she doesn’t look very happy.

“We’re going home, Hermione,” she says, brisk, unhappy. She sounds like Ms. Rice and I don’t like it.

“I know,” I say, because I heard, but I don’t think she hears me.

“Hermione, you need to pay more attention. Work harder,” Mum says on the way home, and I know that, too, but like most things, she doesn’t know that I know.

“Like Dad?” I ask, but I know that’s not the truth.

She doesn’t answer for a moment, then says, “Yes, like Dad.”

(Late night. 9 September 1985.)

I’m supposed to be sleeping, but I was nervous and the feather was floating and I want to show Mum what it looks like because she’s never seen. I don’t think she believes me, but I was trying to make the pencil float during Silent Reading Time and that’s why Ms. Rice got mad because I wasn’t reading. And the flower was floating, I swear it was, and I couldn’t stop looking at it.

I don’t think Ms. Rice believes in fairy tales.

(Grimmauld Place. 2 September 1997.)

It’s nothing--probably Kreacher bustling about the place (and I still don’t understand why the house-elves work at all hours of the night) but I still get up. I hold my breath and pray that the stairs don’t creak on the way up. I’d hate to wake Harry or Ron.

There’s definitely a rattling up there, I can hear it. I don’t know what it is and I don’t know how it got there, but I don’t think it’s anything too dangerous.

It wouldn’t be, would it?

I don’t like going upstairs. It reminds me of fifth year, meetings that I distinctly wasn’t allowed in, Severus Snape swooping in for hours at a time. I want to avoid Regulus’ room, more than anything. We’ve let it grow dusty after looking for the locket, and I’m not inclined to enter it again.

The noise is coming from Fred and George’s old room, I think, so I creak open the door, and there we go. There’s a rattling cabinet, and although it takes a second for me to fully register what must be inside, I do.

I don’t know how it got inside, or how long it’s been there, but there’s almost certainly a boggart in that cabinet.

(High Wycombe. 31 October 1985.)

“What are you scared of, Hermione?”

It’s not a mean question, I don’t think, but it _is_ Halloween. I don’t say anything. I think about trying to make the pencil float and how it worked last night.

“Oh, come on,” my mother says, “if you don’t tell us what you’re scared of then we’ll walk by all the scariest houses.” I don’t believe her.

“I’m afraid of…” I trail off. I think it’s hard to put failure into words. “I’m afraid of doing something wrong.” Of course I would be. After nearly being Kicked Out of the gifted program at school, who wouldn’t be?

My parents laugh.

(Grimmauld Place. 2 September 1997.)

Even today, those thoughts prevail. Even today, those memories of losing everything that I wanted remain. And I know they shouldn’t--I’ve never lost attention in class again, I’ve never done anything less than perfect. I never want to.

And this is why.

(Hogwarts. 16 June 1994.)

I didn’t expect to see the boggart inside of that tree stump, although I didn’t know what I would expect. It was the first thing we did in that class, after all, and even though I never got to fight it, I should know how to back to front. And I thought I did. But I didn’t.

I’m nearly laughing at what my fear was. Failing everything. But I know failure, in any shape or form, has been my primary fear for years. I just didn’t expect to see it that way.

Failure, I think, is relative, because this? This will not be my fear in years, or months, or maybe even days.

Something else will come, ready to take its place.

(Grimmauld Place. 2 September 1997.)

I don’t know what I’m scared of, so how am I supposed to make it funny?

I don’t want to open the cabinet door, but I don’t want to leave this boggart here, waiting, and who knows when we’ll come back. Maybe Kreacher will open the cabinet door, looking for some lost heirloom, and it will come out and get him.

Tentatively, I creak open the cabinet door.

 _Crack!_ And there’s Harry, dead on the floor.

I know I shouldn’t be upset because Harry’s downstairs sleeping but what if he’s up here, what if he’s dead, what if what if what if.

“Riddikulus,” I say, but my voice is weak and there’s nothing in it that makes me think of laughter. Nothing happens to the boggart.

For me, Harry’s death is some sort of failure, I guess. Simply because Harry dying means that Voldemort has practically won, I have failed, and this is not how it’s supposed to be. And suddenly I think I’m laughing.

I don’t know why because this isn’t funny. But I’m laughing, all of a sudden, because for the past seven years, Harry has been practically indestructible, and suddenly this boggart is trying to convince me that he could be killed just like that.

I’m laughing, gasping really, so hard that it’s difficult for me to grab my wand, say “Riddikulus” again. This isn’t funny, not really, I know that, but I’ve suddenly convinced myself that the boggart is ridiculous, Harry won’t die, we’ll all be fine, we’ve done this for years.

The boggart disappears in a puff of smoke. I cover my mouth, still laughing, hope I don’t wake Harry and Ron up, but I very well might.

Suddenly, as quickly as I was laughing, I am crying, and I don’t know why. And I hear footsteps on the stairs behind me, and I try to stop crying because neither Ron nor Harry need to see me like this.

I can’t stop crying, now, and Ron is behind me. I know it’s him because of the way he puts a hand on my shoulder. I bend down, knees buckling. And since my emotions clearly can’t decide what they want, I’m laughing through my tears.

“Hermione,” Ron says softly. It’s not often that Ron says things softly. Usually he is loud and takes up the entire room and is entirely _Ron._ Not now. Not with me. “Hermione,” he says again, “come downstairs.”

I let him lead me down the stairs back to the couch. I let him hold my hand.

(Hogwarts. 2 May 1998.)

Here is the place where my boggart has caught up with me, I think. Here is the place where Harry has died and I have done something extremely wrong.

But failure is relative, I tell myself. It must be, because how else would Harry be standing up? Fighting?

How else would I have hope?


End file.
